Page 30 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Fine, you want to head home?” The dog immediately perks his ears up, stretches, and heads down the hill, tail wagging.
“How did it go?” a much more relaxed Lorraine asks when we enter her home.
“He pooped twice,” I say. “And then he refused to move for a solid twenty minutes.”
“What a monster. Yes, aren’t you, boy? Yes. A complete and total monster.”
Heraldo looks up from his water bowl with adoring eyes before dropping to the floor.
“Would you like his harness off?”
“A saint and a Berkeley Law graduate. Thank you, dear.” Lorraine’s phone chimes. “They’re leaving the aquarium now.”
“Is that at SeaWorld?”
“The Birch Aquarium at Scripps.”
“I’ve never been,” I say as I unbuckle the harness and wiggle it off Heraldo.
“Not a local, then.”
“I hope to be. I’m looking at an apartment in La Jolla this afternoon.” I can’t contain my excitement. “It’s across from Windansea.”
“Ah. A famous surf beach. Dangerous. I wouldn’t take my grandkids there, but if you drive north, there’s a gentler strip between the tide pools that is always a safe bet. I call it the bathtub.” Lorain draws on a napkin and hands it to me. “I bet it’s a seven- or eight-minute walk from your new place. Tell me what you think about it Wednesday?”
“Wednesday, as in tomorrow?”
“Or Thursday or Friday. Heraldo is here all week, and I like the idea of sending Marcie out for a massage while the grandkids and I head to the tide pools.”
“Great. Tomorrow it is.” I am officially a professional dog walker.
Chapter 10
Delight. I think that’s the best word to describe what I feel as I drive to the address in La Jolla. I’m still getting my bearings, which means Google Maps is directing me through charming streets with nary a freeway in sight. The ocean, which is always in the wings, comes steadily into focus as I wind my way deeper into La Jolla. It’s easy to understand where this town got its name. It is an unapologetically beautiful jewel.
Five minutes later, I ease into a parking space under an enormous California juniper tree, probably planted a hundred years ago. The sidewalk around it is cracked and hewn upward by its enormous roots. It’s charming, but so is the sound of thesurf and the sea breeze. I stand on Nautilus Street and marvel. The road slopes downward, as if it ends directly in the deep blue of the Pacific. To think I’d normally be head-down in a cubicle right now, with no window in sight.
Surfers bob among the swells, looking for all the world like playful sea otters, and I feel the smile spread on my lips. I’m going to learn how to surf. I’m going to do yoga on the beach. I’m going to live my life. I’m going to have my own slice of chocolate cake with an espresso. I’m going to be free.
I text Adam that I’m here, and he texts back immediately.There’s a separate alley entrance for the studio. Address is on the gate. Everything is open. Just make sure to close the doors firmly when you leave.
I send a thumbs-up emoji and slide my phone into my khakis. It’s a good thing that Adam texted about the alley entrance. He saved me the trouble of wandering around the block to the front door.
An old wooden door with copper hinges that have patinaed in the salt air stands along a high block wall in the alley. Vines of some sort crawl along the wall in an incomplete array of green. I knock, and the door opens with a gentle clank of metal jangling on metal.
My breath catches. I’m standing in a private, spacious courtyard paved in old concrete tiles that have been weathered by years of sea breezes and salt until they may as well be marble flagstones, they are so gorgeous. Jasmine, climbing roses, and more of those same vines from the alley cover the walls around the courtyard. Pretty blue glazed terracotta pots hold ornamental banana trees. Cascades of geraniums burst out of others. And roses—old heirloom varieties—are tucked here and there. A white privacy fence spans the west side of the property just beyond the courtyard. It must be a new addition—no vines are climbing up it yet.
My sandals skid against the concrete tiles as I bend to inhale the white rose closest to me.
Flanking the south side of this courtyard is a small seafoam green cottage. I step under the cedar pergola that frames the French doors and knock. A clamshell, planted with succulents and nestled against a gorgeous pink hydrangea, looks so cheerful that I nearly introduce myself to it.
Adam said to just let myself in, that the owner had left the studio open for me, but years of living with two older sisters and one younger brother, to say nothing of parents who are still into each other after thirty-five years of marriage, have instilled in me the habit of knocking and waiting just long enough to allow for a scramble.
There’s no answer. So I let myself in. I gasp and maybe squeal too. The cottage is gorgeous. It’s a studio, but it’s also charming, and it is perfect. Pretty hardwood floors. So many windows. A full-size, if small, kitchen along the back wall. Stacked but full-size washer and dryer next to a bathroom that is covered in white penny tile and has a claw-foot tub inside.
How is this place so cheap? Yeah, it’s small, but it’s amazing. I think there would be enough room for a queen-sized bed and a generous couch and sitting area besides. There’s definitely enough room for a table.
Judging the space is a little tricky since the owner didn’t stage it, unless the books and leather chair in the corner were a halfhearted attempt. I slide into the chair, wrapping my fingers around the armrest and enjoying the scrape of the old rich leather against them.
